


afmæli

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Double Penetration, M/M, PWP, Parent/Child Incest, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:45:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5034244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor and his children celebrate their banishment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	afmæli

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for edgeoflight’s “Feanor bottoming to all his sons” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Atar = father (Atya = daddy)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He wakes not for the pale light or his own body’s alarm, but a blunt object digging into his neck. Fëanáro grunts and rolls his head aside, eyes lazily slitting open. His favourite son smiles coyly at him and continues to nose into his cheek before pecking his jaw, murmuring, “Good morning, Atya.”

“Curvo,” Fëanáro greets, around a luxurious yawn that he lifts his hand to half-cover. Curufinwë giggles like he used to when he was much, much younger, though to Fëanáro, he’ll always be his father’s baby boy. 

“It is a special morning,” Curufinwë purrs, and opens his mouth to drag a kiss along Fëanáro’s cheek. He nips his way to Fëanáro’s nose and licks the side once, nuzzling in until Fëanáro laughs and pushes him away, holding them just a small distance apart. While Fëanáro lies naked, Curufinwë is in a silken robe, so thin it’s nearly sheer, clinging to all his curves with a glossy sheen. It’s one of those loose things so very easy to remove, perfect for easy-access, and Fëanáro idly plays with the hem beneath Curufinwë’s dark hair in waiting for his answer. Curufinwë doesn’t give it.

Turcafinwë’s the one that answers, “It is the anniversary of your exile, Atya.” He says it with a smile, perched midway along Fëanáro’s large bed, wearing the same fluttering robe as his brother. His golden hair is braided thickly over one shoulder, his smile fair as any Maia’s. From any other, the reminder would send Fëanáro into arms. From his treasured sons, he accepts it.

Morifinwë’s farther away, sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs dangling off instead of tucked beneath him like Turcafinwë, but he, like all of them, is in the same kind of robe. Kanafinwë has taken up the chair at Fëanáro’s desk, and Nelyafinwë stands beside the window, with the morning glow silhouetting his red hair to make gold. Fëanáro’s twins aren’t present, but he has the distinct impression they will be at some point. 

Turning his gaze back to Turcafinwë, Fëanáro asks, “And you find this special, do you?”

“Of course,” Curufinwë coos, drawing his father’s attention back, as he often does. “We want to celebrate the privacy and peace the Valar have given us with our beloved atya.” He ends with a wink, as though his naughtiness isn’t cemented enough. He draws his hand lazily down Fëanáro’s front, the bed-sheets only reaching Fëanáro’s hips. The touch is tantalizing, as all of his delicious Curufinwë, and Fëanáro cups his chin, leaning in to capture his son’s pert lips.

The door to his chambers opens the second Fëanáro’s tasted Curufinwë’s tongue, and Curufinwë whines in displeasure as Fëanáro pulls back. As he guessed, Telufinwë and Pityafinwë bustle in, Pityafinwë still tying up his robe, and Telufinwë’s so loose that it hangs open nearly to his naval. Of age though they are, they’re the smallest of his children, still overly soft with youth, their copper hair shorter than most and their pointed ears a little flared out, eyes bright. “I apologize for our lateness,” Telufinwë announces, “but we overslept.” Pityafinwë finishes with his sash, smiling apologetically.

“We forgive you,” Nelyafinwë answers from across the room, “But you have just earned yourselves the task of preparing Atar for his firstborn.” Both twins smile brightly, clearly finding it no chore, and Fëanáro lifts an eyebrow at Nelyafinwë.

“You have this day all planned, I see.” For once, Fëanáro does nothing to dissect it. He tends to enjoy leadership himself and keep management to his own clutches, but these are all beings he brought into the world: his greatest creations. So he allows them their play and abides Telufinwë and Pityafinwë scrambling hurriedly onto his bed. Turcafinwë has to slip out of the way, drawing down and to the corner, but Morifinwë’s far enough and doesn’t budge. Telufinwë scrambles right over a pouting Curufinwë to take residence on Fëanáro’s other side, Pityafinwë draping right over Curufinwë’s body. Curufinwë lies still, likely to not jeopardize his place at Fëanáro’s side. 

First, the twins just kiss him, one on each cheek, and he allows them a turn each with his mouth, his hands straying up their supple bodies. They arch into his touch and moan into his mouth, flattening against him like they want to stay, but then Turcafinwë reaches to grab and tug Pityafinwë’s hair, and he’s jerked back with a cry. Fëanáro scolds, “Tyelko,” and Turcafinwë lets go instantly. But the message is sent. Telufinwë’s already kissing his way down Fëanáro’s body, lapping hungrily along his neck to the dip of his collarbone, then over his chest. Pityafinwë joins, so they both kiss one of his nipples at the same time. When they’ve made it across his stomach, they lift and disappear beneath the white sheet draped over Fëanáro’s legs. They’re lovely with their mouths, but a bit too slow, and Fëanáro winds up following Turcafinwë’s lead and threading his fingers into their hair. He’s more gentle than his third-born but still pushes them down, until one of them is at his cock and the other just beneath it. They lick and suck at him at once, one hot mouth around his sac and the other glued to the side of his shaft, drifting up and down. He woke up limp but stiffened quickly at Curufinwë’s clear offer, and by now he’s more than halfway hard, the process quickly finishing under his twins’ eager tongues. One of them stays on his cock, showering it in love, but the other shifts to nip at his inner thighs and inserts between his legs. Fëanáro spreads wider, sighing happily, and a warm tongue presses against his hole, followed by small, probing fingers. 

Nelyafinwë finally drifts closer, around the side of the bed with less bodies, to sit down at the headboard. His robe is a pale red, slid up his thighs as he sits, showing the occasional freckle on his dark skin. While one of his boys—Pityafinwë, he thinks—licks hungrily into his entrance, Fëanáro lifts a hand to stroke Nelyafinwë’s leg. His firstborn is such a handsome boy, like all his creations, but Nelyafinwë will always have a special place in his heart. Nelyafinwë is strong, fierce, and loyal, more than deserving of being Fëanáro’s heir. Still, he checks, “May I be first, Atar? It is your anniversary, and you should have the choice.”

“And what of all the others?” Fëanáro answers, noting that ‘first’ would imply more. He means to add that Nelyafinwë is the perfect candidate for the front of the line, but then Pityafinwë’s finger is sliding into him, and his voice breaks off in a hiss. 

“We can wait our turns,” Turcafinwë answers, his eyes lowered to Pityafinwë’s rear, squirming just outside the sheets, draped over Curufinwë’s middle. Another finger slips into Fëanáro, writhing alongside the tongue that has him dripping wet. He’s gently coaxed open while the conversation continues around him.

Smirking, Morifinwë adds, “Unless Atya wants to see us wrestle for the honour of going next.”

Chuckling fondly, Fëanáro reminds him, “If you are impatient, you are more than welcome to one of your brothers.” He just barely manages to finish the sentence, tossing his head back after and gritting his teeth while Telufinwë’s hot mouth descends on his cock, open wide around him. It takes great skill to keep his hips down; he doesn’t want to dislodge Pityafinwë, and Telufinwë is still learning the art of mastering his gag reflex. Fëanáro lets him descend all the way to the base, suck once, and then, with considerable effort, Fëanáro reaches down beneath the sheet to take hold of Telufinwë’s hair again. He gently pulls Telufinwë back and pushes the sheet away, so he can admire the sight of Telufinwë’s mouth open with his tongue hanging out, a line of spit still connected to Fëanáro’s cock. Telufinwë’s eyebrows knot together, likely wondering what he’s done wrong, but Fëanáro explains, “You had best not give me much of that if you expect me to last through all of you.” Then, looking up to Nelyafinwë, Fëanáro muses, “And you had best take me, for that is what takes me longest, and if I take you, my poor twins will never have their turn.”

“I had hoped to,” Nelyafinwë returns, bending down to place a kiss on Fëanáro’s brow. Fëanáro leans up to bid one to his lips, but they part in a gasp as Pityafinwë licks at a particularly sensitive angle. Nelyafinwë chuckles once on his way to Fëanáro’s mouth, and Turcafinwë reaches out to tug Pityafinwë away. His fingers and tongue recede, leaving Fëanáro wet and opened. As Nelyafinwë lifts up to adjust his position, Fëanáro watches Turcafinwë pull Pityafinwë back over Curufinwë’s body and Telufinwë leave for Morifinwë. The twins’ mouths go right back to use warming their brothers’ cocks, and Nelyafinwë settles in atop Fëanáro. 

Curufinwë helps lift Fëanáro’s legs around Nelyafinwë’s body, and Nelyafinwë, finally, is the first to shed his robes. He unfastens the sash and parts the creamy fabric over his broad shoulders, revealing all of his beautiful body for his father’s hungry eyes. Fëanáro instantly lifts reverent hands to feel him, palm down his inner thighs and across his long cock, bobbing hard in the air amongst a smattering of red curls, then up his tight stomach and along his taut chest, finally to his perfect face. Nelyafinwë leans right down to captures his lips again before brushing one hand down between his legs. 

Before Nelyafinwë can answer him, Fëanáro calls across the room, “Kanafinwë, you are too far away. Come closer.” Kanafinwë obeys instantly, rising from his chair, and Nelyafinwë stills in waiting. Kanafinwë passes between Morifinwë and Turcafinwë, each holding a twin in their lap, to lie down with his face in the pillows and his long, black hair spilling over one shoulder. Kanafinwë leans over Curufinwë to receive Fëanáro’s kiss, then settles back behind, his arms looping around Curufinwë to spoon him. Together, they watch their father and eldest brother: the star attraction. Fëanáro lifts a hand back to Nelyafinwë cheek and purrs, “Now you may begin.”

Nelyafinwë smiles like there’s no greater honour. He presses himself to Fëanáro’s entrance, the tip of his cock already beaded with the spill of precum, and with a sudden thrust, he slips inside.

Fëanáro’s head tilts back again, a pleasured hiss rumbling out of his chest, while Nelyafinwë rocks steadily deeper with slow but insistent pushes. He holds himself above Fëanáro on both arms, his hips pressed down between Fëanáro’s thighs, his wavy hair spilling all around him. He feels _wondrous_ , full and so very long, the longest of all his sons, and it prolongs the blissful slide of him inside. Nelyafinwë makes his way carefully but not mercifully, and Fëanáro delights in each push. Finally, when Nelyafinwë is completely inside, balls-deep in his father’s channel, he lowers down to bring their bodies flush together. He bears his own weight, but the heat of him, the soft brush of his skin, is enough to increase Fëanáro’s pleasure exponentially. One hand coming to cup Fëanáro’s face, Nelyafinwë descends for another kiss. 

The kiss turns into another, then another, while his hips draw out and thrust quickly back in, sheathing himself in Fëanáro faster than the kisses can follow. He’s hard but not forceful: that artful balance. Each drag of his cock along Fëanáro’s walls is enough to make Fëanáro moan into his firstborn’s mouth, and Nelyafinwë swallows each one with his own noises, grunts and the occasional gasp and one deep growl. Fëanáro begins just holding on but quickly tumbles into familiar explorations. He clutches to Nelyafinwë’s shoulders, traces Nelyafinwë’s sides, threads in Nelyafinwë’s hair and drifts down to splay his fingers along Nelyafinwë’s taut ass. When he squeezes, Nelyafinwë moans into his mouth and pounds him all the harder into the mattresses. He proceeds to knead the cheeks of Nelyafinwë’s ass through it all. It’s a process of pure ecstasy, and Nelyafinwë makes it last, enjoying it all. Fëanáro savours each touch. His stamina is legendary, though the feel of his son’s cock inside him, especially against that certain spot, and the pressure of his own cock trapped between their stomachs, is dizzying. Still, he clings on longer. He watches Nelyafinwë begin to sweat. He feels each muscle move in his son’s prone body, and finally, he grabs Nelyafinwë’s sharp ears, drawing him aside by it to purr into the left one, “Come for me, my Nelyo.”

Moaning, Nelyafinwë obliges, shoving quickly in and burying deep. His seed bursts inside Fëanáro’s channel, sloshing about inside him while Nelyafinwë pumps it in, curling tight around him. Fëanáro strokes his back and kisses his ear and soaks in every detail. Nelyafinwë has no match in this world. 

But Nelyafinwë is a beginning, his twins the end, and even as Nelyafinwë stills atop him, Curufinwë strokes his shoulder and coos, “You are so beautiful, Atya.” Nelyafinwë rolls his eyes at his brother’s manipulative tactics but draws Fëanáro back easily with a loving kiss to the side of his mouth. Fëanáro slaps Nelyafinwë’s rear in return, thoroughly pleased with him. 

“I do not wish to leave your body, Atar,” Nelyafinwë mumbles, sounding utterly satisfied, “But I must be fair to Kanafinwë.”

Kanafinwë, the most even-tempered of his children, would likely wait, but Fëanáro knows his own body will not. It will be a feat to wait through them all, let alone to suffer lapses in between. He murmurs, “Kano,” and Kanafinwë nods in acquiescence. Nelyafinwë releases a heavy sigh. Then he lifts up on his arms, his hips following and his cock dragging wetly out of Fëanáro’s entrance to leave a hitch in Fëanáro’s breath and an emptiness in his body. Nelyafinwë gathers himself against the headboard, sitting back in the pillows, and Kanafinwë climbs over Curufinwë to take his place. Curufinwë threads his fingers in Fëanáro’s hair, resting his head on Fëanáro’s shoulder. 

Kanafinwë takes much the same position as his brother, though Fëanáro knows he rides differently. He gathers Fëanáro beneath the knees, bending them back and tucking himself forward. Morifinwë is the one to crawl forward and yank at Kanafinwë’s robe, drawing them away, Telufinwë waiting patiently with an open mouth and precum on his tongue for his brother to return. Kanafinwë lets himself be freed of his clothes, and even lets Morifinwë purposely tug at his hair in the process—Morifinwë’s always been one for hair-pulling. But under Fëanáro’s watchful eye, he doesn’t take it too far. When Kanafinwë wears nothing but his skin, he presses his cock, shapely and slightly curved with the blue lines of veins and his foreskin peeled back around the leaking head, against Fëanáro’s hole. 

His entrance is smooth, almost painfully slow, and he slinks down atop Fëanáro exquisitely as he goes, brushing them so sweetly together. He comes to kiss Fëanáro’s jaw, then Fëanáro’s lips, and into them he hums in delight. His gradual thrusts take a while to bring himself fully into his father’s body, and when he does, he merely rocks, searching for the angle that makes Fëanáro groan and arch up off the mattress. Then Kanafinwë smiles, pushes into it again, and nuzzles into the side of Fëanáro’s face that Curufinwë hasn’t taken over.

Kanafinwë makes love to him, gentle and artful, making the most beautiful noises. Kanafinwë’s hand slips once between them as if to touch Fëanáro’s cock, but Fëanáro murmurs, “Be still, my song bird.”

Kanafinwë nods and continues his efforts. It’s a steady, even, luscious pattern of fluid thrusts. The bliss ebbs into an easy tide, each tipped with a wave of sudden pleasure, drawn out again and soon renewed. Kanafinwë’s face is flushed and dilated with sensuality itself, but Fëanáro resists his mouth simply to leave him humming. Fëanáro holds his cheek and kisses his forehead and rides his love, until Kanafinwë whispers softly, “ _Atar_ ,” and Fëanáro, who’s never heard that single word uttered so perfectly, knows that he’s close. 

Kanafinwë comes with a languid moan, his hips continuing the same pace. He drives it inside Fëanáro to join Nelyafinwë’s release, and Fëanáro can already feel where it’s squelching out of him to dribble down his thighs: more than one elf is meant to hold. Kanafinwë fills him anyway, eventually stilling to sigh.

Turcafinwë’s already in waiting, Pityafinwë having, at some point, left to join Telufinwë in the tasting of Morifinwë’s cock. Kanafinwë doesn’t need to be bid away; he lifts on his own with a warm smile for Fëanáro, and then he climbs free and into Nelyafinwë’s arms. Kanafinwë settles in his lap, turned to rest against his shoulder, and Nelyafinwë holds and strokes him, while Curufinwë squirms against Fëanáro’s side. His robe dislodges to slip down one shoulder, revealing creamy skin to draw Fëanáro’s eye, though his first and second born remain naked. Turcafinwë sheds his robe next, but with a teasing dance to it, giving Fëanáro a chance to revel in each new part displayed. He arches his body as he drags the sash away, draws the ends erotically up his thighs, then parts it slowly over his chest and lets it slip from his shoulders. He strokes his braid once, posing seductively, then crawls forward.

Fëanáro already spreads his legs, but Turcafinwë doesn’t take hold of them, merely sits between. His cock is already glistening wet from Pityafinwë’s mouth, straight and hard; he won’t be able to last as long as his brothers for his impatience. He pushes swiftly into Fëanáro all the same, not forceful but not careful, and he doesn’t push and pull in and out. He slips right to the base, eased by all the cum lining Fëanáro’s walls. Fëanáro still groans at the heady sensation and waits for Turcafinwë to come to his mouth. 

It doesn’t happen. Turcafinwë remains sitting, embedded in Fëanáro but sitting high to show off his body. It’s obviously the reason; he arches and writhes so wantonly. Buried deep, he draws his hips back, lifts his hand to capture one finger in his teeth and shoves back inside. He follows with another, then another, his hips making full circles as he grinds into his father. He touches his lips, his tongue, fingers his hair and smoothes his palms down his chest, squeezing one breast and pinching one nipple. He’s _beautiful_ , a true delight to look upon, and he only becomes more so with each thrust of his cock: more flushed, more slick with sweat, more heavy-lidded, chest rising and falling faster as his breath flutters. He acts like he means to seduce his prey, but Fëanáro is already in love and merely enjoys the ride. Turcafinwë fucking him is almost just a backdrop for the show, though it feels so _very good_ at the same time.

Turcafinwë does come quicker than the others, and he scrunches his face up when he does, crying out and tossing so that his yellow braid topples over his shoulder, hunching them, face lowering to gasp, ever a show. He fills Fëanáro up with one hot jet of seed after the other, and he bites his lips and pounds in each one, even as it sloshes out around him. 

Fëanáro wants to come all over him. It’s difficult to resist, with his cock pointed straight at Turcafinwë’s face. But he knows others are waiting, and Turcafinwë’s barely finished by the time Morifinwë grabs him by the braid. Turcafinwë cries out again, hands leaping to his scalp, but Morifinwë just tugs him back and releases him. Turcafinwë does shuffle out of the way, withdrawing from Fëanáro’s loosened hole, but he takes a fistful of Morifinwë’s locks the second he can. Morifinwë hisses, but his face twists in delight, and even as Turcafinwë jerks it cruelly in revenge, Morifinwë’s cock only twitches harder. They only stop when Fëanáro warns, “Boys.”

It captures Morifinwë’s attention, and Turcafinwë begrudgingly relinquishes his hold. He clambers instead to the pile of used sons, where he curls up on the mattress and rests his head on Nelyafinwë’s leg. Telufinwë and Pityafinwë are perched near the end of the bed, one on either side of Fëanáro’s feet, sitting up straight and watching happily. 

Morifinwë is the first to move Fëanáro. He comes on all fours up Fëanáro’s side and kisses Fëanáro’s nose, pushing at his shoulder to bid, “Roll over, Atar.” It’s said respectfully but with a slight growl; Morifinwë’s voice is raspy and dark. Fëanáro, despite how heavy he feels, turns, just to enjoy a little variety. Curufinwë moves away enough to let him but quickly reattaches to him after. 

Fëanáro lies on his stomach, cheek turned in the pillows, facing Nelyafinwë, Kanafinwë, and Turcafinwë. He brings one arm up to rest alongside Nelyafinwë’s naked thigh, but his other arm Curufinwë captures. He can see over his shoulder Morifinwë lying atop him, and he quickly feels the weight. 

Morifinwë fucks as hard as Kanafinwë does soft. He shoves right into Fëanáro with no warning, stabbing all the way to the base on the first thrust. Fëanáro grunts, but it’s covered by Morifinwë’s louder groan. Then Morifinwë wraps his arms around Fëanáro’s middle and lifts his hips, slamming them down a heartbeat later. He proceeds to take Fëanáro in sharp, brutal thrusts hard enough to make the bed quiver. He fucks with such passion, such _fire_ , but still he digs his face and teeth into Fëanáro’s back, and Fëanáro knows Morifinwë adores him just as much as all the others. Morifinwë shoves all Fëanáro’s hair aside and bites into the nape of Fëanáro’s neck, but not nearly as hard as he would with his brothers. His hands seem to claw at Fëanáro’s chest. He pounds into Fëanáro again and again, leaving Fëanáro dizzy and nearly sore but loving every second of the burn. 

Morifinwë, like Turcafinwë, had the benefit of a warm mouth around his cock, and he’s even faster—he’s usually the quickest, perhaps because he expends everything at once, merciless from the beginning. His orgasm comes with a _roar_ buried in the back of Fëanáro’s skull, and Morifinwë pounds it out, his seed burning-hot in Fëanáro’s over-used channel. He’s been so stimulated that his hips are nearly trembling, but he fights to regain control out of pride. They’ll likely undo him. He still has three sons to go. But for now, he does what he can. 

Morifinwë slumps when he’s finished, breathing hard atop Fëanáro and still buried inside. He nibbles on the end of Fëanáro’s ear with his sharp teeth, until Fëanáro affectionately elbows Morifinwë off. Begrudgingly, Morifinwë releases Fëanáro’s channel and rolls off him, pushing Turcafinwë out of the way. 

It leaves Curufinwë so sweetly attached to Fëanáro’s side, warm and pretty. Fëanáro lifts up just enough to turn his head to his favourite child, and he murmurs in invitation, “It is your time, my Curvo.”

Curufinwë grins, the very same one Fëanáro does during mischief. He answers quietly, “But you look tired, Atya. I can wait.”

“Nonsense,” Fëanáro snorts. “I made the seven of you, and I can house you all before my own end.” 

Curufinwë sighs. He brushes a long strand of hair from Fëanáro’s sweat slicked face, but he still doesn’t move from Fëanáro’s side, only purring, “I think I should let you rest.”

“What about us?” Pityafinwë asks, drawing Fëanáro’s attention to where Telufinwë and Pityafinwë have crawled to him. “If he will not, we will.”

Fëanáro returns to Curufinwë, but Curufinwë doesn’t fight them, and he would if he wanted to. Telufinwë bids, “Sit up for us, Atya? We are both smaller than the others—not as long as Nelyo or thick as Moryo—perhaps we could take you at once?”

“At this point, I dare say you could, after four rounds,” Fëanáro muses. He pushes up on his arms, which requires slipping one from Curufinwë’s loosened grasp. Sitting on his rear stings, so he grits his teeth and lifts on his thighs, while Pityafinwë hurriedly scrambles in front of him him and Telufinwë goes to the back. They’re both shorter then him, and he bends to kiss the top of Pityafinwë’s head, then twists back to do the same to Telufinwë. They both cling to his middle, identical in every way, right down to their ripe cocks. Fëanáro watches Pityafinwë maneuver under him and feels Telufinwë joining from the back.

Both of their spongy tips push into his stretched hole, and it does force him wider, but not by much, and he’s heavily leaking seed so that the way is more than eased. Telufinwë pushes a little up first, then Pityafinwë, and then they go together, driving into him from either side. Fëanáro wraps one arm around Pityafinwë and reaches back to hold Telufinwë’s thigh with the other. They’re fully inside him soon, thick together, and they pull out and push back in at the same time. They fuck him breathless and quick but perfectly in tandem, with little, eager thrusts and hands that slide all over him and mouths that litter his back and chest in kisses. He’s always pleasured them as one, and it’s amazing to feel it in return, the two so perfectly in sync. They make such delicious noises the whole way through, and he moans along.

But they’ve been playing from the start, and they’re the youngest, and they only make it so long as Morifinwë. The finish at they exact same time, letting loose the exact same cry, and they both cling tightly to him to fill him up. They’re the noisiest, messiest, and cutest. It’s incredibly tempting to explode across Pityafinwë’s chest, but Fëanáro somehow holds on and rides them through it. 

They’re wedged inside afterwards, but they pull themselves out, toppling back to lie, spent, on the sheets, until Nelyafinwë tells them, “Clear Atar’s way.” Then they nod lazily and crawl to either side, sprawling out again. Morifinwë looks down at Pityafinwë, who’s landed next to him, in consideration, but Fëanáro knows he won’t be ready again just yet.

Now Fëanáro doesn’t have to ask, because Curufinwë squirms beneath him, into the indent on the mattress where Fëanáro lay before, and Curufinwë fills it right up: the image of his father. Grinning slickly, he drops all pretense of Fëanáro’s tiredness and asks, “Now, Atya?” Without waiting for an answer, he nudges his feet between Fëanáro’s legs and draws his robe open, revealing more supple skin for Fëanáro to desire. He can see now why Curufinwë waited, cleverly maneuvering himself until the end, so there would be no one to push him out of the way and he would feel Fëanáro’s release. Fëanáro always likes to reward cunning intelligence.

He straddles Curufinwë’s lap, sighing, “As you wish.” He’s the one to hold himself over Curufinwë’s hard cock, and then he drops his weight down, taking Curufinwë all at once and needing to growl not to roar. He’s stretched and soaking, but Curufinwë’s such a _perfect_ fit, built just for him: Curufinwë’s cock is a near replica of his own. He lies, hard, on Curufinwë’s stomach, nestled in the dark hair above Curufinwë’s crotch. Curufinwë reaches for Fëanáro’s hips and holds him, while Fëanáro lifts up to drop back down, taking it all over.

Fëanáro rides Curufinwë with what energy he has left, his thighs painted in a mixture of his son’s cum and his body drenched in sweat. His quarters reek of sex, the musk of it everywhere, but it’s one he’s used to. He can still smell _Curufinwë_ through it, and Curufinwë looks so blissfully happy that Fëanáro could finish from the sight of him alone. When they’re alone, they often whisper things into each other’s ears— Fëanáro has habits with all his sons—he’ll take Nelyafinwë anywhere, equal and skilled with respect and reverence—with Kanafinwë he’ll order his song bird to be as vocal as possible, and he likes to take Kanafinwë slow in soft sheets or plush grass—Turcafinwë he’s had in front of mirrors, often public places, and he likes to bathe Turcafinwë in the seed that made him—Morifinwë he takes rough and harsh, biting and scratching and pulling his hair, releasing all their energy—the twins he adorns with toys and fingers them at once and has them kneel and suck his cock and share his load between them. Curufinwë he takes in his own bed, speaking or just experiencing one another, intimate and everything. 

Curufinwë has excellent stamina, though he hasn’t reached his father, and Nelyafinwë often outlasts him. He’s clearly trying to hold on, savouring Fëanáro for as long as he can, and he whimpers and keens when Nelyafinwë drops a hand to pet his cheek. Kanafinwë reaches to stroke Curufinwë’s arm, but the rest are still. Fëanáro rides Curufinwë with abandon, wanting to milk out his precious, darling, beloved child, but Curufinwë luxuriates in just as much pleasure. 

Finally, Fëanáro is the one to topple. He’s had too much, and Curufinwë’s cock is as wonderful as all the others, the sights and sounds and smells of them all bringing back the touch and taste, and he simply can’t hold on any more. He comes with a torrential cry, bursting so hard across Curufinwë’s chest that it slicks around Curufinwë’s chin, and it makes Curufinwë moan like nothing else. He follows a second later, thrusting suddenly up to spend himself in Fëanáro’s twitching channel, joining all the rest. 

Fëanáro still rocks for several thrusts, before finally puttering to a halt, spent and light-headed, overwhelmed and completely over-stimulated. He pulls off of Curufinwë, only to lie down atop him. Curufinwë curls happily around him, clinging on and murmuring in his ear, “I love you, Atya.”

“We all do,” Morifinwë grunts, sincere. 

Fëanáro responds tiredly, “And you are all loved in return.” Curufinwë grins, and Nelyafinwë’s hand drifts to play in Fëanáro’s long hair. 

For a few moments, they allow him that rest and silence. Then Turcafinwë muses aloud, “I wonder if you will have enough energy for the breakfast we have prepared you, Atar.”

Midway between a groan and a chuckle, Fëanáro asks, “And what is that?”

“Something you can lick off our bodies,” Kanafinwë purrs.

“Or we can lick off yours,” Curufinwë mutters. 

“Well,” Fëanáro concludes, “Someone will have to bring it to me, as I fear you have all left me quite unable to leave this bed.”

“We will fetch it,” Pityafinwë volunteers.

“If we may have the first taste,” Telufinwë finishes. At Fëanáro’s appreciative nod, they come to kiss his cheek, one each, then scamper off. 

There’s another short rest behind them, but Morifinwë breaks it by murmuring, “I want another.” He moves to climb towards Fëanáro, but Nelyafinwë holds him back and Turcafinwë gives him a stern look. Curufinwë grabs possessively onto Fëanáro, squeezing tighter, and Fëanáro rocks into him to make him gasp and loosen. 

Then Fëanáro fills the time playing with his greatest creations, until his twins return, completely the seven best things that ever happened to him: a gift greater than any Valar could have made.


End file.
